Archive of Our Own

“I’m appointing you as captain.”

Akaashi doesn’t have to doubt the feeling of deja vu. So far, he has heard that sentence thrice in his entire baseball career: twice directed at someone else and once, him.

The first had been in his second year, when he accompanied Bokuto to the office. Coach Yamiji seemed endlessly amused at the sight of the team’s ace cowering behind their resident catcher-in-training, clearly expecting to be told off. He muttered something about how he meant to tell them separately before inviting them to sit. Regardless, that day they walked out the room as co-captains.

Second was early on in their co-captaincy. Bokuto had neglected to distribute the personalized training menus because he left them in his locker at school. They were called to the side in the middle of a fielding practice that ran late until dark. He still remembered the chill that ran up his spine as coach held his gaze for an uncomfortably long amount of time, not breathing another word beyond reciting the sentence. Bokuto bowed repeatedly and promised to get the menus to everyone’s hands before the day ended. Long story short, that night Akaashi learned Konoha has an aptness for picking locks and Komi, for climbing tall fences.

Third time it happened, he was called into the office alone. Six months ago. Call him supercilious, but he was aware of what his summoning had meant and what epoch-making talk would be awaiting behind the door. He did not, however, account the possibility of being immediately assaulted by colourful party streamers from all angles and Bokuto cheering loudly (read: screaming) in his ear.

He has served his duty as Fukuroudani’s baseball team captain since then.

Judging by its sequence, he supposes this conversation is most akin to his second experience with it.

“Sir, if you deemed me as an unsatisfactory leader, I have no qualms in resigning—“

The coach holds up a hand. Akaashi feels his throat close up.

“American team from last year is proposing another friendly game,” his coach explains, flicking a piece of paper across the table. It spins across the surface and he catches it under his palm before it slides past the edge and tumbles onto the ground:

An invitation, addressed to one Akaashi Keiji.

“Coach Washijo already retired in June, so I’m in charge of inviting the best players in the nation to represent japan this time and consequently, arranging practice for the event.”

“Congratulations, sir,” he sputters, the bile in his throat easing slightly after knowing he was not in trouble. He only hopes his next sentence won’t put him straight back in hot waters. “But with summer tournament right around the corner, are you sure about this?”

Last year’s match had taken place at the start of Spring, a wildly different situation to this year.

On this last stretch of off-season, the standard procedure would be to prioritize practice matches with a complete formation to ensure the players perform harmoniously as a team. To miss even one member in practice for a couple days may potentially be incredibly disadvantageous, let alone the team’s top players.

And to think that Fukuroudani so much as considers trudging on this crucial period without both their coach and captain.

Coach Yamiji nods in acknowledgement. He seems thoughtful as he lets the silence ruminate. Akaashi holds his breath until the older man rests his elbows on the table, weaving his fingers together and pressing it to his lips. “I understand it’s a critical time—no one wants to reveal their cards before summer, after all. Whether the players accept or not is up to them, but this kind of opportunity doesn’t come often.”

He supposes it’s true. All those involved and not involved in last year’s match had readily accepted that it would most likely be a one-time thing. Plenty uninvited players were tremendously disappointed to have missed it but ultimately resigned to their luck.

That is precisely why this second chance was a pleasant surprise. They—as in, the national high school baseball community as a whole—could not possibly pass this up. If there is one key to secure another opportune for a match next year, it would be to see this one through.

In the grand scheme of things, that is the entire point anyway: to nurture a friendly relationship. As it stands, Japanese high school baseball scene would greatly benefit from maintaining a camaraderie with a foreign team. Both countries would.

“Understood. I’ll notify the rest of the team to prepare for our three days absence.”

He bows, about to take his leave when—

“Akaashi,” coach Yamiji fixes him with a faraway look. “It’s an all-star team. There’ll be scouts watching the game. Make the most out of it.”

Ah. Another dialogue he is familiar with.

He answers as he always does, with a sentence he could masterfully recite in his sleep.

“I’m going to university. My mind is made.”

His coach raises a brow at him, bringing up a new talking point into their tired tradition. “Even if Black Jackals put in an offer?”

“Even then,” he replies without wasting a beat, undeterred. “Bokuto-san looks to be doing well working with other catchers. He is a star in his own right, who never needed me in the first place.”

After a short pondering, the man nods in agreement on the one thing they always see eye-to-eye on. “It’s important for him to realize there are others who could catch his pitches, but Bokuto still seems to perform his best in a battery with you.”

“He only started pitching to other catchers this year.” If there is one thing Akaashi would always believe in, it’s this: “Bokuto-san will only get better with time. He always does.”

Coach Yamiji sighs, shaking his head lightly, but there was the beginning of a smile blooming on the corner of his lips. “Learn to take the compliment, kid.”

Akaashi blinks at him. “Oh. Thank you.”

He excuses himself and coach waves him away as he closes the door behind him, walking back to dorm dazedly. Onaga meets him at the bottom of the stair with a nervous disposition and he relays a short recap of the meeting as they take a short detour to the vending machine.

“Thank God,” his vice captain breathes out, in time with a small punch to the button for orange juice, and rests his forehead against the machine. A small patch of condensation clouds the glass. “I thought we forgot our co-captain duty or something.”

Akaashi hums absentmindedly, clicking his can of lukewarm coffee open with a pop.

Something nags at him in the back of his mind.

Wait.

What was the thing about captaincy again?

Despite playing an outdoor sport since elementary, he really doesn’t do well under the summer sun. His default colder than normal temperature does virtually nothing in assisting him to keep cool in the heat. If any, it only makes it better for everyone but Akaashi himself.

Sarukui had instinctively pulled him along to line up after his starting catcher debut in the summer tournament and immediately yelped when he came in contact with his palm, effectively garnering looks from the rest of the team. They marveled on his magic hands, as they had so lamely and borderline-inappropriately nicknamed him, and Akaashi had served as resident ice-pack substitute ever since. It’s silly and embarrassing, but he knew his teammates doesn’t bear ill intents when they ask him to lay his palm on their forehead after returning from their batting turn. It is one of the few ways he knows he can help boost morale, so he continues lending his hands. He wasn’t using them for anything anyway.

Except now he is at a loss of what to do with them.

He is taking a short break from catching in the bullpen, as is his routine on any regular Saturday mornings, but he is surrounded by teammates who doesn’t trip each others’ feet to get first turn at pressing their cheeks against his palm.

Perhaps the right emotion to have is relief, yet he feels nothing of the sort. Soaking in such strange hollowness would only further unsettles him, so he delegates himself onto picking up empty bottles and refilling them to busy his hands. Such task is usually the managers’ duty but this mish-mashed team will have none to assist in their short-lived stint. When there are no managers present, he supposes these responsibilities naturally falls back to him. He decides he doesn’t mind, though; it gives him something to occupy his hands with and it was only for a couple days.

“Yo, Cap, can ya pass me a bottle?”

He looks away from the arrays of bottles he has neatly arranged on a small table by the dugout to find a grey-haired guy standing a few paces away.

Miya Osamu had been a surprise addition to the all-star team’s roster.

Coach Yamiji extended an invitation to Hyogo’s high school baseball powerhouse for a spot in their lineup and they accepted right away. Arrangements regarding their delegate’s temporary accommodations in the Fukuroudani dorm were made and the rest of the affairs had been a breeze.

Until the Fukurodani’s representative who was tasked with picking up the delegates at the train station returned with a set of identical teenagers marching in angry steps and pulling at each others’ hair the whole way.

The one with the blond hair, Miya Atsumu, immediately stepped in front of the coach. We’re a package deal, he boldly declared, not offering any other arguments to support his case.

Osamu merely shrugged and stood there with a disinterested look until Coach Yamiji gave up and asked Anahori to show the guests to their room. Later, as his twin gets his turn of Coach Kurosu’s reprimanding at the landline phone, he knocked on the office’s door.

Keep me on the bench, I don’t r’lly care, he said, his indifference clearly showed in the way he deliberately ignored Akaashi’s presence in the room. But my brother’s a damn good catcher, yer missin’ out if ya don’t let him play.

Say we keep you out of the game, how do you plan to spend these four days? Take a train back to Hyogo?

Tsumu will throw a tantrum if he finds out I bailed, so nah. Akaashi could tell he was fighting back his instinct to snort. There’s this ramen place in Ueno, dunno, might see what the noise’s all about.

The coach shared a look with him then, his silent way of asking for his opinion, and Akaashi gladly took the opportunity to speak his take on the matter.

It should be fine, I think, he paused, feeling the weight of Osamu’s eyes on him. We could use another pitcher to even out the number of batteries and Kozume would probably be glad not to have to come in to fill the last-minute spot we kept open.

Kozume is his long-time friend and definitely the one Akaashi is most attuned to—both in terms of play and on personal front—among their list of invites. Getting through this pseudo-training-camp without having that sense of familiarity will be completely new to him, but he would be lying if he said he’s not a little curious about this interesting twin dynamic.

(By that he means he wonders what it’s like to have a telepathic battery partner)

Coach Yamiji nods in approval.

It’s decided, then.

“Hell-o, earth to Cap?”

Akaashi snatches the outermost bottle.

“This team lasts for three days, Myaa-sam, you do not have to address me as such.”

Very ironic of me, he thinks, policing him on what to call him while he regards Osamu by the nickname Bokuto assigned him. If the guy notices, he doesn’t comment, taking the drink from his hand with a grateful nod.

“Nah, it suits ya.”

What with the fast pacing of this short training camp, Akaashi haven’t interacted much with everyone outside the topic of practice—but there are three things he knew for sure about the Miyans:
1. They form Inarizaki’s most prided battery
2. Miya Atsumu was made captain in their third year
3. Miya Osamu refuses to call him captain

Akaashi isn’t sure he delights in Osamu using him as instrument to irk his blond-haired twin, but so long as he isn’t made an active participant in their childish feud, he wouldn’t complain. Somehow, he has a sinking suspicion that complaining would be more effort than he would care to spare.

“I would hope so,” he replies instead, with a note of finality.

Beyond this game, he is still captain to his own team. He would be a disgrace if he does not at least seem like he would make a decent leader.

Osamu chuckles in amusement. “Do ya always misinterpret compliments on purpose?”

It seems like the kind of cheeky last word remarks the Miyans are known for, so he chooses not to dignify it with an answer and walks over to grab a bottle of his own.

Instead of going into the dugout to bother someone else as he expects him to, Osamu sits on the ground to his left, leaning back against the railing. The railing in question being a piece of fairly wide diameter pipe. It could not have been comfortable. Akaashi frowns, but ultimately ignores him as he seems content to lounge there while chugging down his water greedily.

“Yer reputation precedes ya, Akaashi-kun,” Osamu suddenly says, startling him mid-sip.

It begins again. Remnants of what once was.

Akaashi Keiji, the only second-year who made it to last year’s all-star team.

Recap of last year’s friendly match was published in the baseball monthly. In an interview, Coach Washijo talked at length on how he hand-selected the players. The news spread like wildfire and it was quite the sensitive topic for a bit. Some of the bitter players who didn’t get an invite was less than welcoming to Akaashi when he saw them in the summer qualifiers.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, even—whom Akaashi would like to think he maintains a well acquaintanceship with—was cold towards him for a while. When he waved at Sakusa only to be brushed off, he confided in Komori about it; who apologized in his cousin’s behalf and told him not to worry, that everything would revert back to normal soon.

Sure enough, revert back it did. Everyone forgot about him in favor of the Garbage Dump Battle finally happening at the Summer Koshien after seven long years of waiting.

Though, he still made a point to personally deliver this year’s match invite to Itachiyama.

The whole debacle was blown out of proportion at the time so he supposes it’s only natural for the topic to come up again now. Despite so, it still took him by surprise to hear it from Osamu. Akaashi is under the impression that the more composed of the twins is not particularly concerned about something as frivolous as vying to be a top player outside official competition space; but then again, this guy does share the same genes as Miya Atsumu, after all.

No matter.

Akaashi knows how to handle this by now.

Calmly, he uncaps his bottle and bows forward as he pours the content over his head. Holding his bent posture, he lets the excess liquid runs through his strands of midnight locks and cascade to the ground beneath.

His hair has gotten longer, he notes. He should cut it soon.

“I was only given a spot because Bokuto-san refused to form battery with anyone else.”

In his periphery, he sees Osamu watching him squeezes water out of his curls with a neutral expression. “He still calls you the best catcher he’s ever worked with.”

“Bokuto-san exaggerates quite a bit.”

The weight of Osamu’s eyes is not something he thinks he’ll ever get used to, but Akaashi can tell this one is different. He stands back upright and turns to find Osamu wearing something other than his usual aloofness.

He looks incredulous.

“Ya do realize the guy was top five high school pitcher in the country ‘til last year and now plays for the Black Jackals? I wouldn’t take his words lightly.”

“Perhaps not.” Akaashi wrings out his hands absently, feigning nonchalance as he sounds his next choice of words: “But I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

Osamu blinks at him.

“Huh?”

A part of him relishes in catching the stoic Miya off-guard. He has to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep from smiling too wide.

“Myaa-sam, would you like to form a battery with me?”

Osamu tries to retreat to his default state of unreadable apathy, but Akaashi already saw the corner of his lips quirk up ever so slightly. He pretends to buy into his fake-skepticism and narrowed eyes anyway, for fun. “What are ya tryin’a gain from this? I‘m telling ya right now: Tsumu isn’t the brightest tool, but he wouldn’t pick fights over me breakin’ our battery for a few days. He’ll sulk, but it ain’t gon’be enough to mess us up for summer or anythin’.”

“I figured as much,” Akaashi shrugs, resting his lower back against the metal pipe railing. It really was uncomfortable. “My motive is much more straightforward. I get to stare down your pitches and in turn, I’ll let you into my head, how I decide which throws to ask and whatnot. I think it’s a fair trade.”

He sneaks a glance at the boy sitting on the ground, looking every bit contemplative. Osamu seems to consider it, at least.

“Think he’d let us?” He asks after a while, gesturing to the older man barking instructions across the field from them.

“I can convince him.”

Coach Yamiji is careful in forming batteries for this game, minding each team’s possible match up in the coming summer tournament as much as possible. Fukurodani and Inarizaki are from completely different prefecture altogether, but both are a crowd favorite to win their respective qualifiers and go to national. The next time they see each other, they may be enemies.

Still, that possibility is far enough in the future that the two of them being in a battery together may not be harmful at all. A lot can happen between this moment and their eventual reunion on Koshien diamond, plenty to let them partner up now.

Should Osamu agree out of his own free-will, Akaashi is sure the coach would have no reason to object the proposition.

“Well,” he prompts. “How about it?”

“Tempting.”

“I know.”

Osamu hums, the sound reverberating deep in his ribcage, and picks himself up from the ground. With his back straightened upward, he is only mere three centimetres taller than Akaashi, but his sheer presence is imposing regardless. “Dunno ‘bout ya, Akaashi-kun. Official matches or not don’t matter ta me, I hate losin’, period.”

Naturally, he keeps from snorting aloud. “I wouldn’t dare assume otherwise.”

The pitcher walks the short distance to the dugout and disappears from sight. For a second, Akaashi thought his idea had been rejected; but the fresh towel suddenly slung over his shoulder says otherwise.

He looks to his left to directly meet Osamu’s cloudy irises. They remind him of the sound of faraway thunders, of a storm brimming in the horizon—close enough to predict, but too far removed to gauge the full-extent of its virulence.

“Let’s win this, Fukuroudani’s catcher.”

It is the bottom of the seventh inning, second match of the day, when the two find themselves leaning against that same railing: him with back against it as he fiddles the bat in his hand and Osamu with his figure slouched lazily atop the handle.

The score was a close 4-3. The team hit the ground running, batting off the American’s starting pitcher before he could properly settle into his groove. In contrast, Atsumu who’s still riding a high from the adrenaline of his homer in the last match leads Sakusa through three innings by only giving up one run. Everything was looking up for them until they made a switch for Kageyama-Hoshiumi battery, who cannot seem to agree on a pitch most of the times. A particularly grueling two minutes of silent back and forth between the mound and the home plate resulted in a well-timed RBI and it all started going downhill from there.

“Yo, partner,” he greets. “How ‘bout ya ease me some pressure and score a run ‘ere?”

Akaashi peers down from under his helmet.

They have only been substituted in since the fifth, but everyone else except Miya Atsumu—who, Akaashi is convinced, runs on ego boosts instead of energy—are exhausted. There is no doubt in his mind that their battery will be closing this match.

Osamu is right, of course. With their team one point behind, it would be nice to secure a run here and even out the playing field so he can pitch a little leisurely in their last two turn of defense.

“I finally see why you’re the pitcher twin, Myaa-sam,” he remarks in lieu of agreeing outright.

He doesn’t typically employ playful rudeness with someone he barely knows for three days in total, but this guy has been sharing a space with a renowned menace to society since the day he was conceived, so Akaashi figures it might be fine.

All pitchers are at least a little bit self-absorbed, he remembers Washio saying, that one afternoon Bokuto insisted on throwing his (at the time) unstable splitter during fall semifinal which they later lost. You don’t always have to follow their whims.

This small jab is Akaashi standing his ground, in a way.

Osamu scoffs, completely unalarmed by the change in Akaashi’s manner of speaking, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. A smirk pulls at his full lips instead. “‘Course I am. I’m the one with the charm.”

In the distance, the umpire declares the third strike. Taketora retreats to the dugout cursing up a storm and Akaashi takes it as his cue to move away and kneel in the on-deck circle.

“‘m serious,” Osamu shouts above the American team’s cheering and as if what he said before isn’t enough to make his heart drum in an erratic beat, he says: “Ya better be comin’ home ta me, Akaashi-kun.”

Well, he supposes he can afford to disregard Washio’s advice and gives into his pitcher’s idiosyncrasy for a day.

He does, after all, hit far past center to the outfield, bringing both the second and third base runner home while he himself stands on the second base with his finger pointed straight at Osamu, as if to say: Watch, this is for you.

And if his face burns warm, he blames the summer sun.

Ultimately, the game ended in a tie.

For all his bluster, Osamu doesn’t appear to be all that upset by the outcome.

He failed to score another run in the same inning but Osamu greeted him home with a wide grin nonetheless. Deep down, Akaashi knew, him making a show out of mussing up his hair was merely to signal to his brother: Didja see that, Tsumu? That is how a catcher should be, after all!

But for one day, he’ll let his delusional brain believe the gesture was something closer to genuine affection.

Given the five weeks countdown to summer, the all-star team immediately disbanded.

Coach Yamiji had consulted him weeks ago if forgoing a celebratory meal was improper, but a few of the coaches had excused their players to immediately return ahead of time; and so, everyone promptly dispersed after the debrief. In the end, only the pair of twins who have their train departure set to the following morning remains.

One of which is standing by the gate after they saw the other off to trail after Sakusa and Komori, promising that he will return after sun down. Osamu rolled his eyes but didn’t make any attempt to stop his brother and Akaashi wonders if this is such common occurrence with Atsumu that it hardly surprises him anymore. Osamu seems unbothered, for the most part, except for when he lingers for a moment longer after the three rounded the corner.

“Myaa-sam,” he calls.

“Hm?”

The gaze Osamu keeps trained on the far-off corner of the street seems forceful, somehow. It is insincere and Osamu is a bad actor, but Akaashi cannot comprehend why the other boy insists on retaining the stiff facade.

“That ramen place in Ueno is not all it’s cranked up to be.”

Akaashi hears Osamu’s breath catching in his throat before he breathes it out in a gravelly laugh, the sound more akin to a susurrus than a hearty guffaw.

“Dang, that’s a bummer.”

He sounds genuinely disappointed and Akaashi ponders if he had been looking forward to it. Maybe he should have gone along with his idea and said nothing.

“But it’s still good!” He backpedals in panic. “Nothing out of the ordinary, in my opinion, but suffices just enough. Our taste might differ, anyway. We should go there so you can form your own thoughts on it and—“

“Kaashi-kun.”

His lips zip right up and once again, he is reminded of how heavy Osamu’s gaze can be.

“Are ya offerin’ to accompany me to dinner?”

Normal, composed Akaashi would answer with a simple yes, but something about being under Miya Osamu’s scrutiny makes him freak.

“If you’d like,” he blurts out—repeating the words he has been reciting in his head since two nights ago in the coach’s office—lest he falters completely. “I know an Ikebukuro hole-in-the-wall that serves a meltingly tender pork belly cha siu.”

Osamu snorts, not unkindly. “Ya suck at making segue.”

“I know.”

“Alright, hold on,” he requests, and Akaashi genuinely holds: one, his breath and two, onto the hope that he hasn’t embarrassed himself too much. Clearly, he wasn’t subtle enough with his internal turmoil to escape Osamu’s notice, because he huffs out his next words, almost as though he himself is holding back a laugh. “I gotta check if tournament guidebook mentions penalty for kidnapping a rival school’s captain.”

Akaashi blinks.

Osamu grins smugly. “Lead the way, ‘Kaashi-kun.”

Miffed by the boy who doesn’t even bother hiding his amusement, Akaashi takes longer steps forward begrudgingly, forcing the other to jog to catch up. “You’re clearly not capable of getting away with murder if you’re saying that to your potential victim’s face.”

Osamu throws his head back, laughing one of his breathless chuckles as he falls in step with him. “Not that. I was thinking ‘bout takin’ ya back to Hyogo.”

(The implication has yet to hit. It eventually does, a lot later—as in, years later.)

“I’d rather not compete for starting catcher position against Myaa-Tsum.”

“Why the hell not? Ya can take that lame ass scrub in a fight.” Akaashi sends him a look. “Figuratively.”

He doubts it.

Objectively, he is obligated to admit that he is good at what he does. He was made starting catcher on his first year and should everything goes well, will continue to be until the end of his high school baseball career. He was a vice-captain in his second year, now captain in his third. He has been to Koshien multiple times, going as far as winning second place in the last summer tournament. Even a year since then, people still talk about the Bokuto-Akaashi battery.

Akaashi Keiji is a good high school level catcher. It would be a lie to say otherwise.

But it’s exactly that. He is just good, and only good solely because his partner is a star and his teammates, reliable.

Last year’s generation was known for their elite defense crew first and foremost. With the various breaking ball and monstrous fastball in his repertoire, Bokuto confidently lead the team through one strike-outs after another. Meanwhile, the fielders had his back whenever the ball slips through his fingers, always raring to go for double-play whenever the opportunity presents itself. It was why Akaashi could take on the risk of calling for so many pitch-to-contact plays because he knew that even if he fails, the rest will cover for him.

That is the kind of team Fukuroudani is. The kind that could afford to have one absolute mess of a player as starters and still comes out on top, because the rest will make up for it.

Akaashi was exceptionally lucky to be here, lucky to be entrusted as regular catcher as early as the later half of his first year, lucky his teammates had enough patient to support him while he is fumbling to find his footings, lucky he didn’t immediately get demoted when his miscalculations costed them tremendous loss at Koshien, lucky coach Yamiji personally helped him with improving his skills.

In the end, that is what it boils down to.

Mere luck.

Had anyone else acquired the opportunities he received, they could easily become as good as he is and produce the same result.

Beyond what Fukuroudani had molded him to be, he is bland. His game calling is about as predictable as book-theories get, he helps pitchers improve by applying ideas he stole from discussions with the coach, his game sense is manufactured through adapting other catchers’ strategies, and he borrows opinions from listening to the scout team’s and managers’ analysis of previous matches.

He has absolutely nothing original to offer whatsoever. Having him as a catcher does not give any additional edge nor advantage to the team. If any other catcher were to replace him, it would make no difference. Depending on who they replace him with, it might even be a tremendous improvement from his performance.

Akaashi Keiji is an extraordinarily-ordinary catcher.

He shrugs. “It’s not about winning or losing. I’d rather not, if I can help it.”

Because I would lose face, surely, he muses, but doesn’t say.

Osamu chuckles, again. The sound just as lovely as the first time. “No Tsumu on the team, got it. I agree with ya on that.”

(Another missed implication. He realizes it later, a few months later, when it’s staring right at him.)

He is not Miya Atsumu, high school number-one catcher. He is not Kageyama Tobio, the Miyagi’s former powerhouse’s catcher who is rumored to take said crown next year.

Akaashi Keiji is good, but he is not great.

He will never be great.

He doesn’t dare dream to be.

And yet, as they sit in that little joint tucked away in a tiny crevice somewhere in sleepy Ikebukuro, knees bumping under cramped table, and fragrant steams billowing from two bowls laid in front of them, Akaashi finds himself dreaming. He quietly watches Osamu chases the piece of jammy egg swimming in his tonkotsu broth with chopsticks—something not unlike a prayer dying on the tip of his tongue:

I’m no Myaa-tsum, he reaffirms in strange determination, willing his invocation to reach across the comfortable silence settling between them, but if you’d like, we could be good together.

Two months, thirteen days, and eleven hours since they last heard each other’s voices and the first thing his best friend chooses to say is:

“Quick! What was the last cup noodles you ate?”

“Chili crab,” he answered compulsively.

There was a sigh on the other end.

“With poached egg,” he adds, as if supplying that piece of information would save him from the high pitched screech that is sure to follow.

“Are you overworking yourself again!?”

It was a mechanism the last generation of regulars developed specifically to test him. Somehow they figured out that his brain shelves detailed record of everything he has eaten within the last forty-eight hours timespan and that his larynx works faster than his cerebrum when he’s bone-weary. It works, every single time. Without fail. Akaashi desperately needs to work on his impulse control.

He contemplates reeling back to greetings and saying hello, but he figures Bokuto’s one track of mind would perceive it as him avoiding the topic. That would lead to him telling the other alumni and Akaashi is not in the mood for another surprise intervention, especially if they get food science university student Shirofuku to guest-lecture on the importance of nutrients (read: a thorough review of everything she has eaten for the past week). Even being the avid foodie that he is—or perhaps exactly because he is—listening to vivid descriptions of mouth-watering cuisine on an empty stomach is, in his opinion, the worst torture mankind could have possibly ever come up with.

Either way, this is sure to be a long call, as conversations tend to be with Bokuto, so he decides to take his break early and retires the wooden bat to lean against the batting cage partition. He sits by the windowsill, enjoying the cool night air blowing in.

“As far as I’m aware, no.”

The sky is clear tonight, no clouds as far as the eyes could see. Is it crazy of him to wish for a rain storm?

“Agaashe Keiji, do not lie to me! Anahori said you’ve been returning to dorm past eleven.”

He frowns. “That is still well within curfew.”

“Oh no,” he hears Bokuto gasps, his heart leaps to his throat on instinct. “It’s that one drag of cigarette I let you try.”

“What?”

“Damn you, uhh.. tsar, nicholas, romanov—whatever Kuroo said!”

It’s tar, nicotine, and certainly not Romanov.

That had been two months, thirteen days, and eight hours ago.

They arranged a small-time reunion and somewhere between Akaashi’s retelling of winter practice camp and Kenma vaguely hinting at his plans after graduation, Bokuto updated them on his life as a Black Jackals player. For the most part, he boasted the new breaking ball he’s working on, but he also talked at great length about his new teammates. In a random trivia section, he slipped a tiny detail about how Meian used to smoke before quitting when he decided to go pro and how he wondered what cigarette tastes like.

Kuroo, the menace that he is, had latched onto it and so cleverly suggested him try it once to quench his curiosity. Bokuto and his never-ending zest for life, of course, thought it was a fantastic idea and ran off before Akaashi could stop him. He came back with a single cigarette he claimed the convenience store guy gave him for free and as sketchy as that sounded, they trust that no one would have the heart to harm the sunshine that is Bokuto Koutarou.

Actually trying it was a different matter altogether.

Kuroo already tried it before—because
of course he has—and Bokuto threw a mini-tantrum over not wanting to have his first smoke alone. Akaashi was not budging and he really thought that would be the end of it. Then, in an unexpected turn of event, Kenma volunteered himself; probably out of annoyance than anything else, if his tell-tale sign of tightening his hoodie whenever his social-battery is close to running out is anything to go by.

In the end, no one was exempt from the experience. They each took turns as if it was some kind of blood pact—again, Kuroo’s idea—but none of them picked up another cigarette ever since.

“Did I turn you into a delinquent!? Come back, Agaashe!”

Akaashi pinches the bridge of his nose. This exchange has turned into a bigger nuisance than he initially anticipated.

An idea crosses his mind.

“Ah, coach,” he addresses to an empty room. “No, no one was yelling, sir. It’s just this—“

Immediately, there is a panicked whisper-shouting in his ear: “Agaashe! Please don’t tell him! I’ll stay quiet, I promise I’ll stay quiet!”

“—owl flying past.” He is inside, but Bokuto doesn’t need to know that. Nevermind that the excuse makes no sense either. “I think it’s gone now, pay it no mind. Good evening, sir.”

If there is one thing Bokuto is afraid of—other than ghost, that is—it’s Coach Yamiji. Clearly, the training menu incident had scarred him deeply.

Well, that is enough messing with Bokuto for today. He is, after all, only trying to look out for him, even if he does it in his own loud and meddlesome way.

“Everything is fine, Bokuto-san. I’m just doing extra batting practice these days.”

“Really!?” He perks up instantly. “We should swing together!”

The wind picks up a little then and Akaashi is reminded of the numerous times Bokuto had invited him; and consequently, the numerous times he had waved him off. He had preferred to spend free practice studying scorebooks and watch recordings of other team’s aces, believing his 0.33 batting average was reasonable enough for an eight-hole. As long as he maintained that stat, he was content. He had no interest in moving up to clean-up as others aspire to; and truthfully, he still doesn’t. He does, however, care about scoring more run so as to ease his battery partner’s burden.

He tries not to ponder why he feels that way, now of all times.

So here he is, handed another chance to learn directly from an outstanding fourth-hole power hitter who inspired him to pick up a wooden bat in the first place. Akaashi is not about to let it go to waste.

“I’d love that, actually.”

The night before summer qualifiers finds Akaashi cutting his bangs.

It is late, a little after curfew, so he tries to keep it quick and quiet as much as possible. He tips his head forward, mindfully watching his hand movements as he angles the scissors with precision. With a crisp sound, locks of raven fell right onto the sink below.

He is in the midst of contemplating cutting it shorter when Onaga walks in.

They exchange a look through reflection in the mirror. “Would you like me to get the backside for you?” He offers.

After minor adjustments to his arrangement, Akaashi lets Onaga work in comfortable silence. He can hear the soft trickle of water dripping from that third shower from the left that has been leaking for weeks now. He tucks away the reminder to propose for repair in his mental checklist.

“There was another scout at practice today,” Onaga remarks.

“I saw.”

Another snip.

“Judging by the nice suit, she must be working for a professional team.”

“She might be.”

Onaga brushes the stray hairs and gently pats his shoulder to signal that he is done before moving away to dispose of the mess they made. Akaashi inspects his new haircut in the mirror and notes that he feels lighter. He had only meant to shorten his bangs at first but with how clean he feels, he does not regret the impulsive decision to cut everything one bit.

“Akaashi-san,” Onaga calls while he turns on the tap. “Is it true that you’re not going to continue playing in university?”

The water slowly warms ever so slightly and he thinks of how his graduation plan is not particularly a secret. Given the many times Coach Yamiji had not-so-subtly urges him to consider the invites in between praises for his batting, he is sure that everyone on the team knows about it. No one dares to bring it up though, understandably so—Akaashi is nothing if not private and adamant.

So to be asked point-blank like this, he supposes it’s a sign that he could’ve handled it better, that he should’ve at least discussed it with and notified his vice captain. If anyone, Onaga deserves to hear it directly from him.

“It is.”

He dips his head under the steaming shower streams and almost feels guilty witnessing Onaga’s conflicted expression through the silver glint of the faucet, but schools his face to stay neutral when he looks up and reveals:

“I’m going pro.”

Akaashi takes his last bow as Fukuroudani’s captain at the quarterfinal of Koshien.

But as Bokuto (affectionately) wrestles him into a headlock and talks animatedly about the aggressive call he made in the sixth, all the while dragging him in the direction of a man in suit waiting at the end of the hall, he understands that his summer doesn’t end here; it’s only beginning.

“‘Kaashi-kun, which team are ya joinin’?”

He wonders what is it about him that makes everyone forgoes any form of greetings whenever calling. Akaashi chuckles. “Good evening to you too, Myaa-sam.”

“Night,” he drawls, feigning playful irritation in his tone. “So which is it?”

Tightening the bag strap slung across his middle—his wooden bat jostling inside—Akaashi climbs the stairs leading to the Yurakucho line and squeezes his way through crowd of weary workers hurrying home.

“I’m still thinking.”

“Hmm, ‘m guessin’ you’ve got a lot to think about,” he hums, the kind that transcends audial wavelength, proof of the distance that stretches between Tokyo dan Hyogo, and reverberates across the brittle bones of Akaashi’s ribs like the low rumble of thunder. “Any team standin’ out to ya?”

Not particularly, he wanted to answer.

“DESEO Hornets,” the truth tumbles out instead.

Above the passing noise of a baby crying in their rushing mother’s embrace, he can hear Osamu raising a brow at him. He does not ask, but the question rings in the air:

Not Black Jackals?

It’s what everyone asks.

“If I’m going to move across the country, might as well to Kyoto,” Akaashi fills in the deafening silence—explains, even if he doesn’t have to.

Osamu remains quiet on the other side.

The bustles of Iidabashi at rush-hour buzzes louder in his ear.

He clears his throat tersely. “Have you made up your mind, Myaa-sam? I have no doubt you received plenty of offers.”

“Yeah.”

Akaashi breathes a sigh of relief at the sound of his voice, no matter how quiet it is compared to the whirring of chatters around him.

“You sound so sure.”

Osamu laughs, not unkindly, and he finds warmth blooming in his chest. In the midst of a swarm of unfamiliar faces he is lost in, Akaashi holds onto its comforting familiarity.

“Do I? I only decided just now.”

He hears someone shout in the background. The line goes static for a bit and he catches the tail end of a muffled conversation he can’t quite make out in between the booming announcement of his train’s arrival, before: “Hey, I gotta go, but we’ll talk again soon, yeah?”

Something akin to disappointment fans out the warmth. He blinks.

“Ah, sure.”

The door slides open and passengers start pouring out of the car like a flood.

“Text me if ya change yer mind, though,” Osamu adds as his parting words before he clicks off, leaving Akaashi by the platform with more questions than answers.

Osamu does not call as promised. Instead, he texts:

still hornets
?

yes

tsumu’s going for msby
we good

okay?

haha see u

Two months later, Akaashi watches Miya Osamu wrestles the slight bump on the floor to wheel his suitcase in.

“You’re really here.”

Osamu halts. “Yeah?” Then panics, eyes darting to the piece of paper tacked on the door. “Did I read the room assignments wrong?”

Akaashi approaches the man standing by the doorway and nods his head no as he taps his shoulder. Osamu steps away, letting him through quizzically. He folds the telescopic handle in and smoothly lifts the suitcase over the bump, then unfolds the handle once more before pushing it into its owner’s waiting hand. If Osamu’s whole face reddens, Akaashi pretends not to see. He’ll let him keep his pride for a little while longer.

“I mean you’re actually here,” he reiterates, more to himself than to fish for answer. “In Kyoto. Playing for the Hornets.”

Face still rosy, Osamu makes quick work out of retrieving the essentials. They both arrived earlier than the rest of the team who are currently on break and therefore has a week left before practice starts to unpack, but of course stuffs like shower amenities, a couple of clothing articles, and other core necessities are non-negotiable.

“I’m followin’ ya, if that’s not obvious.”

He doesn’t have any preference, so he lets the other choose his bed (Osamu tosses his change of clothes on the one further away from the window) and sits himself on the other one.

“Why?”

“Tsumu’s more than happy with the Miya Twins brand, but I don’t wanna base my entire worth on bein’ a twin, ya know? I’m a damn good pitcher because I’m good, that’s it,” he explains, pausing to pull his t-shirt off and the fresh one over his head. “And well, if I wanna shake off that title, it’s guaranteed that I gotta go against Tsumu at some point, so I figured I’ll finn’a catcher who can help me win and ‘ere we are.”

It shouldn’t surprise him this much.

He did place hopes in partnering up with Osamu in Atsumu’s place, but to have this expectation to win pinned on him is beyond unnerving.

Akaashi pulls his legs close to his chest. “Did it never cross your mind that I might quit playing?”

Osamu looks away from his task of stuffing the laundry bag, blinking slowly at him.

His skin crawls. “What?”

“You’re funny, ‘Kaashi-kun!” Osamu throws his head back then, voice a little choked up by the laughter rumbling deep in his chest cavity. He propels himself onto his bed, lying on his back as he holds a hand to his stomach. “No way you’d stop. You’re the hungriest out of all of us.”

Akaashi ponders this.

Is he really? He doesn’t think so. Definitely not more than Bokuto or Atsumu, that much he is sure of.

“Are you calling me a baseball idiot?” He pouts.

“That’s not what I mean,” Osamu grunts, turning to lie on his side to face him. Then, in a timbre so soft it almost pains Akaashi, he elaborates. “You hunger for the world.”

“Pardon?”

“You were a top student, captain of the baseball team, vice president of debating society, and active member of the student council.” At the bewildered look on his face, he explains, “Bokkun wouldn’t shut up about ya, and who d’ya think gotta listen to Tsumu hypocritically complains ‘bout his overly chatty teammate?”

Drumming a finger in a gesture he hopes come across as nonchalant rather than anxious, Akaashi mumbles, “I’ve retired from most of those by third year.”

“You still did them all for two years.”

“I have many interests.”

“Exactly,” Osamu interjects, snapping his fingers for empasis. “Baseball isn’t your end-all-be-all ‘cause nothin’ is. You wanna be anythin’ and everythin’ all at once, pro catcher included.”

Spot on.

He is so spot on, Akaashi almost feels naked.

“I could’ve gone to university first,” he deflects, attempting to hide his nudity behind divertion instead.

“I thought that’s why you chose this team. Aren’t ya majorin’ in literature right now?”

He is. At Kyoto University, where he can run to night class after practice and take most of his courses online—but he hasn’t told anyone that.

Osamu shifts to prop his head on his palm, holding his gaze. “Well, if you did, I would’ve went with ya. ’m not in a hurry to go pro and collegiate level sounds like lots’a fun too. Then again, ya seem the type ta wanna do everythin’ as optimally as possible, so with how age-sensitive sports is, figured you’d go straight to pro outta high school and cram in a degree somehow.”

Akaashi looks away, hugging his legs tighter and tugging his hoodie closer. “It’s not a realistic plan, is it?”

Osamu shrugs. “Maybe not, who knows, but there’s no fault in tryin’. B’sides—” Akaashi glances in time to catch the unmistakable fond look in his stormy irises. He knows then that he is in the very eye of this hurricane. Strangely enough, he thinks he might not mind staying here for a long while.

“If anyone could do it, it’s you, ‘Kaashi-kun.”

Akaashi, most definitely, cannot do it.

Practice is even more brutal than what he originally anticipated and he expected ten times worse than his high school baseball powerhouse’s regiments. The team’s trainer determined that he is decidedly too thin for a professional player and issued him extra weightlifting exercises targeted for muscle-building on top of the regular menu that already has him wanting to collapse and desiring the sweet release of death by the end of it. At the very least, it always ends exactly as scheduled and the calendar gets updated regularly, meaning he can easily predict which days he can come to classes in person and which ones he has to opt for catching up through recordings.

That said, he would argue that arranging meetings for group assignments with college students is way harder than scheduling his occasional absence from practice for in-class presentation, quizzes, and such. No one says a peep in the chat for weeks on ends and when he, full-time professional athlete who can barely holds his phone nowadays, tries to initiate something, anything, he is left on read. Until the very last week of the deadline, that is, and suddenly he is the asshole for not being able to skip practice and make time without a one-week prior notice—which is a policy he made clear the day of the workgroup formation, by the way, he definitely told these people what they were getting into grouping with him. As last-ditch effort, he sent parts of the project he had secretly done in advance and let them finish the rest. He does not even care what they do with it, all that matters is he’s done his contribution and no one can say otherwise (he keeps screenshots for safety measures).

There is one week left in the semester when Akaashi finds himself in the Hornets dorm dining hall after lights-out, forehead pressed firmly against the island counter as he wills the granite to sear his skin and cool his overheated brain. He isn’t even half-way through his first year and already, he is questioning if a piece of paper is really all that important in the grand scheme of things. In the end, he reaches the following conclusion:

It might be;

but the job prospect it promises does not guarantee enough money to cover the life-long therapy he will need to address all of the pre-existing trauma and anxiety that university has only amplified for him.

“Hey, still alive?”

Oh. The surface has gone tepid.

Rolling over to press his right cheek against another yet-to-be-warmed section, he groans, “Unfortunately.”

Osamu shakes his head at him but ruffles his hair all the same as he walks around the bar seatings. Bags of groceries he hides in their room are lined on the counter when he peels his cheek off and looks up. “Wouldja mind if I cook ‘ere?”

Unlike that of a cat, he stretches and begins gathering the book opened to page 128 (out of 502), his laptop which is barely hanging off the side and near close to jumping off the worktop (truly a contemporary portrait of his current state), and the disgustingly neon-colored sticky notes scattered across the various kitchen surfaces—yes, various, don’t ask.

“’m not kicking ya out!” Osamu protests, ripping the hardcopy of Crime and Punishment off his hand and holds it over his head.

He might be feeding into his ego over the couple of centimeters he has over him, but Akaashi is too tired to care as he half-heartedly stands on his toes and grasps for the book the pitcher purposely put just a little out of his reach. “You need the kitchen to cook and I’m not a pleasant person to be around when I’m stressed.”

“Can’t get any worse than Tsumu,” he slams it down on the counter—Akaashi tries not to cringe about the bindings—then pats the spot next to it. On the counter. “Come sit.”

Again, he is too tired for this, so he climbs on without much qualms.

Judging from how he doesn’t immediately broach on to any other topic, Osamu seems content with his silent company. And so, for the next hour or so, Akaashi continues reading Raskolnikov’s desperate quest for absolution with the clement whizz of oil simmering in a pan as white-noise.

Before he realizes how much time had passed, a bowl of piping hot dish is placed before him. In the most unamused tone he can manage, he grumbles, “Get that away from me.”

Osamu exaggeratedly gasps in mock hurt. “Does my hitsumabushi offend ya that much, ‘Kaashi-kun?”

“Please do not distract me with comestibles. I am almost through this verbose take on morals and conscience.”

“Define what ya consider as ‘almost.’”

“293 pages.”

“You’re gonna get nowhere by depravin’ yourself of food,” he snorts, pushing a bowl he’s working on garnishing towards him. The tare-glaze’s fragrant smell dances in the air invitingly. “Com’on, the unagi’s gonna get soggy.”

Sighing in defeat, Akaashi slides himself off his perch and rounds the island. He sits on his designated stool where everything is already so neatly laid out for him and sets the hardback down. “Twenty minutes.”

Osamu flips it face down—presumably to tell him to focus on eating—and again, Akaashi tries not to cringe thinking about the spine. “What is yer final paper ‘bout anyway? Isn’t Russian literature depressin’ as hell?”

He distracts himself by setting aside the eel fillets to dig into the rice beneath.

“It’s a comparison between Notes from the Underground and No Longer Human. Both echoes similar themes of misanthropic men alienated from society and sickened by the rest of humanity, but I try to highlight the different perspectives and ponderings each authors poses in their respective writings.”

Osamu gathers his servings in his arm and chopstick between his lips before settling on the seat next to him, their knees bumping under the cramped bar, and Akaashi is taken back to one summer ago, to the cozy little ramen shop in timid Ikebukuro that once belongs to only them for an evening. Something about that night nags in the back of his mind, but he shelves it with a tiny reminder to revisit later.

He eyes the book from the corner of his vision, tapping the cover with one end of his chopsticks. “Okay, so why are ya readin’ this?”

“To minimize bias. I grew up reading Dazai, so it feels heavily unbalanced if I don’t familiarize myself with other Dostoevsky’s works.”

Clicking his tongue, more in amusement than of any malice, he muses, “Leave it to ya ta go the extra miles.”

Akaashi stacks scallions and a pinch of wasabi atop one piece of unagi before scooping the entire thing into his mouth. The ugly impostorism crawls uncomfortably beneath his skin. His doubts pour out before he could help it. “The final product may not even reflect all the efforts I put into it, and this professor is known for being cutthroat and illogical in his gradings. I’m being dumb. There’s no way I can survive this. This whole university thing is stupid.”

He can feel Osamu’s dazed stare physically boring into his skull. He pulls at the strings of his hoodie, slurping at the dashi broth in attempt to conceal himself from the world.

“How ‘bout this,” Osamu plucks his now misty glasses off and pushes it to rest atop his head. “If you pass this class, I’ll work on that one-ball adjustments you’ve been naggin’ me fer months.”

Akaashi perks up instantly.

“You’d do that?”

Osamu slants against his propped up palm, grinning up at him. “Fer ya, yeah.”

Akaashi leans in instinctively. “Both sides of the strike zone?”

“Let’s start with outside first,” Osamu backtracks, chuckling nervously, “not sure ‘bout inside just yet.”

Akaashi mulls it over.

“Okay,” he says, dully.

“Okay?” Osamu asks, half-disbelievingly.

“Okay,” he repeats, smiling.

Three months after the reminder, near-one and a half year after the actual incident, the night before their battery’s debut;

it hits him, finally.

An hour before their long awaited debut, Akaashi pulls Osamu to the side.

This isn’t the time for a heart-to-heart, he knows, but he needs Osamu to know that he understands what this match means for him. He needs him to know that he, too, wants to make the world see him for who he is, beyond his identity as one half of the former Miya battery. He needs Osamu to know that even if he may never trust in him the way he trusts his brother, Akaashi is willing to put in the work to earn that trust—by helping him win this match, for starters.

“You and your brother has deep-rooted trust in each other.”

There is an insistent ringing in his ears that prevents him from hearing his own thoughts clearly, but that wasn’t anywhere close to what he planned to say.

“What trust?”

Akaashi snaps his head up to meet Osamu’s eyes, searching.

“Dunno where ya got the impression,” he shrugs, “but I don’t trust the guy. He lies like it’s an olympic sport. Real grade-A asshole.”

“And you’re not?”

His derisive predisposition slips before he realizes. He curses himself. Now is really not the time.

“If I am, and that’s a big if, I’m a failing C-grade at best.”

Emboldened by the non-offended response, Akaashi raises a brow, challenging. “You’re being too modest, you could go for a B-plus. I believe in you.”

“Thanks, I’ll try my best,” Osamu chortles, broad shoulders shaking. Akaashi titters in kind, tension slowly ebbing away—a small voice in his head wonders if that had been Osamu’s intention by reciprocating the silly banter. “Who needs trust, anyway? Long as the mitt’s right there, I’ll pitch exactly where it tells me to.”

He half-scoffs, half-snorts at this answer. “Thank you, Myaa-sam. It’s encouraging to know that you think of us catchers as nothing more than convenient target boards to throw onto.”

Osamu whines. “Com’on now, yer puttin’ words in my mouth. I’m sayin’ Tsumu’s the board.” With the familiarity of someone who has known each other for a lifetime and not the months old partners they are, he wraps an arm across Akaashi’s clavicle to keep him from slinking away and slots his chin in the crook of his neck with ease, nuzzling cheeks with his own. He can’t help but think that Osamu belongs there. “Yer a different case, Keiji-kun. I’d blindly follow ya to the end of the world if you’d ask.”

Akaashi tries not to choke on a promise. “I wouldn’t lead you astray.”

“I’ll stay with ya even if you do,” he says so easily he wonders if Osamu knows, knows of this feeling of inadequacy gnawing at his ribs; because lately Akaashi feels less than transparent in front of him. It is unsettling, yet he finds that he does not dislike it.

“Only because you’d have no other choice. You wouldn’t know the way home if you trust so naively,” he quips, retreating behind a thin veil of wits as he does, but resists the tingling urge to zip up his windbreaker.

Osamu releases the loose grip to reach for his hand instead, skipping around to pull him forward while clumsily walking backward. Behind him, the summer sun trickles from the dugout into the end of the corridor, painting him in a less than flattering backlight that reminds him of an eclipse. He is nothing but an uneven shadows and still, this is the most effervescent he has seen Osamu.

A small part of his vibrancy has inevitably been reflected onto Akaashi himself and perhaps he, too, had never been as vivid as in this instance.

All because Osamu lingers long enough to see past his snark, acknowledges his every defects and poorly concealed insecurities, and decides to stay with him anyway.

“I just think being lost wouldn’t be such a bad thing if it’s with you,” Osamu says, tugging him in the direction of light.

Akaashi melts.

How enthralling it is to be found.

Zeroes creeped a little past halfway up the scoreboard before he knew it.

The second half has been particularly grueling but Osamu seems to be in tip-top shape. He has delivered an exceptional performance so far, following his aggressive calls with little to no qualms and throwing every pitch with near-terrifying control and accuracy. Now, if they can maintain current pace in the remaining innings, Osamu might get to pitch in full and secure his possible appearance in their next game.

“You’ve got some guts on ya, Akaashi-kun, striking out our clean-ups with three fastballs.”

Ah right, it’s Atsumu’s second at-bat.

He steps up to the batter box, wags his bat almost-menacingly—if only Osamu didn’t show him video of that one time the blond twin over-swings it and hit himself on the back of his head as a result. Akaashi sucks in his teeth to keep from sniggering.

Focus.

Atsumu being chatty is a golden opportunity he must not miss. They are up against a battery who used to know how they tick like the back of their hand and Akaashi is not above employing psychological tricks to throw their adversaries off their game and gain the upperhand.

“My job is merely to determine which courses are most likely to get us an out.” A deliberate oversimplification of a catcher’s duty is bound to irritate Atsumu, this he knows. ”In the end, Myaa-sam’s the one who delivers.”

Hook, line—

“Yeah?” Atsumu turns his nose up at him in disdain, tone raising a few octaves. “I think it’s ‘cause ya can’t catch Samu’s breaking ball.”

—and sinker.

Literally.

An actual sinker flew right by, narrowly missing Atsumu’s torso before sinking straight into Akaashi’s unintentionally waiting mitt.

“Oi, scrub,” a gruff voice calls from the mound. “If you mess with my catcher, I’ll sock ya in the face!”

“What the hell!” Atsumu glared, looking every bit scandalized, “You can’t throw at an unsuspecting batter, ya fucknut!”

Ignoring his brother completely, Osamu raises a brow and Akaashi nods as he firmly throws the ball back, assuring him that the words does not bother him in the slightest. He grins, even.

That had not been a coordinated move but judging by the curl of irritation in Atsumu’s pout, the small squabble is more than effective in throwing the blond twin into a frenzy of unimpeded anger.

Osamu has done his (unscripted) part well and it is up to Akaashi to make good use of this unprecedented circumstance.

To secure the tide in their favor, it would be most ideal to have Atsumu strike out in five pitches or less. Given the context of their previous banter, the first pitch should be a straightforward out-low.

It does as expected, with a swing and miss.

The next two ends up fouling, but it was well within his projected prediction so Akaashi isn’t particularly concerned.

Bokuto yells from the dugout when they get another strike with a high-inside, giving the unsolicited advice to stick out his hips more. If Akaashi is still his other battery-half, such thing wouldn’t have mattered. But because Atsumu is Atsumu, it only manages to infuriate him further.

Akaashi glances at the scoreboard in passing while recounting Osamu’s number of pitch so far. The sixth inning and still quite a bit away from a hundred.

It’s about time, he supposes.

Propping his leg to kneel outward, he settles his mitt to frame the low-outside once more. Though this time, he signs for a different pitch.

Halfway across the field, Osamu eyes gleam with unbridled excitement.

It merely flashes for a split second before he schools his expression back down but judging by the way Atsumu readjusts his grip to choke the bat, he must’ve caught it.

No matter. Even the twin does not know of this one.

What drew Akaashi to Osamu had been a single pitch—more specifically, the last pitch he threw in their game against the black horse (crows) from Miyagi. The ball slipped and sunk right to the low-inside, of which is declared ball and let Karasuno’s lead-off man, Nishinoya Yuu, walk to first base. From there, a series of unfortunate developments eventually compiled and ended Inarizaki’s short-lived run at National Summer Koshien of their second year of high school. Atsumu took their loss the hardest and banned the pitch ever since.

It was rough around the edges and definitely didn’t break in the direction it’s meant to. It’s clearly one of those pitches that would be a tremendous pain to catch, but Akaashi had his eyes zeroed in on it. He knew, that if he ever had the chance to catch for Osamu, that would be the pitch they’d work on.

Long story short, here they are, about to debut said pitch in a pro league.

Osamu nods at him and Akaashi braces himself for the impact.

One moment he is watching Osamu doing his windup.

Another, the ball is nestled snugly in his mitt.

Atsumu froze in place, unable to move. “Fuck,” he curses under his breath.

“Strike,” the umpire proclaims. “Batter out.”

The stadium erupts in enthusiastic cheer as ocean green meets the eye of the storm currently reeling on top of the mound. Osamu’s cheeks flush pink, and not from exertion of pitching for all six innings, but for successfully establishing his newest breaking ball: a 12-6 curveball, which even right-handed pitchers rarely throw. The pitch that he could throw with his southpaw trajectory.

Osamu blinks at him rapidly, mouth opening and closing around nothing, looking as though he still does not believe that he pulled it off.

Well, believe it, Akaashi wants to say, you executed that perfectly.

They weren’t able to polish it during their time as days-old battery but ever since going pro, Akaashi always offers to pair up with him whenever possible to stabilize its flying path. It was a long, tedious process of trying out every grips under the sun, but as they settle on one that lets Osamu naturally transfers the most topspin onto the ball, it gradually starts becoming more consistent. An after-hour session at the bullpen around two weeks ago is when Akaashi became confident enough to plan a strategy around the use of it in a game, but he could not have predicted how well this had turned out.

Given that he is a switch hitter, they may not be able to effectively pitch it to Atsumu again if he were to bat left in his next turn, but to force a batter—his own twin, no less—to strike-out looking on the first throw is the best possible outcome there could be. In this instance, there is no doubt in Akaashi’s mind that the yellow hammer will one day replaces the slider as Osamu’s signature pitch.

He only hopes he would be there to catch it when that day comes.

“Coach has been glarin’ daggers at ya since we return from the sixth.”

Not a single team in baseball plays without doing a thorough research on each of their opponents’ players. In fact, it is his job as a catcher to analyze those data and come up with a strategy based on every statistics available on hand, so rest assured he fully understands the importance of keeping crucial informations to utilize as calculated advantage at the right moment. With that said, in his humble opinion, the sixth was the right moment.

It’s the truth that he can’t exactly guarantee what disclosing such a significant detail would do for the team in the long run, and even he acknowledges that delaying the reveal until official competition would’ve been a much smarter move. Alas, this is their debut as individuals, their chance to step out of their former partners’ shadows. It doesn’t matter if it’s a practice match, this is the one game their battery cannot afford to lose.

Akaashi shrugs, continuing to undo his shin protector. “All due respect, but coach cannot reprimand me until after the match is concluded. Only then will we truly know if I made the right call.”

Divulging the new pitch is risky, he is aware. The stink eye that follows him around is not completely undeserved. Yet the coach has not said anything because Black Jackals batters seem rattled from that singular 12-6 curveball and have not been able to hit for their past three turns at offense.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. Even if that one time was a huge success, the pitch itself is still incomplete. They will continue to perfect it and by the time he signs for it again, it will be a completely different pitch altogether.

“So basically,” Osamu makes a twirling motion with his finger and Akaashi obeys, turning around and letting him help unfasten his protective chest plate. “Yer tellin’ me to buckle down and pitch my best to save yer ass, ‘s that it?”

There is no way Osamu could see him, but he frowns all the same. “I said no such thing.”

“It’s implied.”

The buckle unclasped with a click. Akaashi immediately whips his head around to face him. “How is it implied?”

Always, Osamu is there, already with a helmet in hand to gently fix it atop his head. He drums a beat against the hard surface with his index finger. “As your pitcher, am I not the only one who can show if you made the right call or not?”

Akaashi sways his bat to and fro, drawing strength from its comforting weight. “You’ve done plenty. You heeded my onerous lead to aim at the very edge of the inside low while remaining in the strike zone. That, combined with the wild curveball would predictably hold them off for a good while, but for it to stretch an entire three innings was all you, Myaa-sam.”

The astounded look on Osamu’s face is, by far, Akaashi’s second favorite expression of his. He gapes at him, irises blown wide. “You planned the whole thin’.”

He definitely did. The extreme in-low slurve variation he requested him to sporadically throw in the first five innings was to mimic his 12-6 curveball’s flight path, setting up the perfect trap to effectively confuse the batter on where to put their bat once they debut the yellow hammer pitch.

Osamu narrows his eyes at him, treading a few steps backwards comically as though to emphasize his point.

“You’re scary, ‘Eiji-kun, truly.”

“Why, thank you.”

He laughs, a small precious thing. “Since it looks like we might go into the extra inning, what’s our next move, evil mastermind?”

Akaashi ponders this, matching his previous predictions to current situation, calculating if it would still be the best course of action. “Since beginning, I knew it would be a one-margin win on either side but I didn’t think we’d go on a stalemate for this long. Once they’ve caught on to our current pitching habit, I won’t ask for any more breaking ball except your shootball.”

“The modified shootball?”

He nods.

This one is not exactly new. Ever since the friendly match, Osamu no longer utilizes the plate the way he usually does, specifically when pitching shootball. Majority of pitchers stands on the third-base side, which was how he starts out as well. Out of Akaashi’s suggestion, he starts standing as far to the first-base side as he can. It puts an angle on the shootball, making it a more powerful weapon. The better it gets, the more the batter will focus on inside pitches, making outside pitches more effective.

“If necessary, we’ll put some one-ball adjustment fastballs in the mix and we can prevent giving up any run. As long as we keep them off the scoreboard, we haven’t lost yet.”

Osamu hums noncommittally, sounding like his mind is somewhere else, if the mischief brimming in his stormy eyes is anything to go by. “Ya know, as my partner, this is the part where ya should score a run fer me.”

An echo of something he said in a previous life, back in that dugout at one of Tokyo powerhouse’s home ground.

Akaashi huffs.

“You’re quite a demanding ace, Myaa-sam.”

As a newcomer, Osamu is far from donning the coveted jersey number one just yet, but Akaashi fully intends on making a proper ace out of him. One day, there will come a day when the Hornets would proudly call the pitcher Miya as their ace.

For now, though, this ace belongs to only him.

Osamu wiggles his brow, a cocksure smirk on his lips. “It’s part of my charm.”

An irritating ace, but his ace nonetheless.

Repeating a reaction he made in the past, Akaashi snorts. “I can understand how your charm—” he quotes the air, “—might appeal to some people, but I must regrettably inform you that the same does not apply to me.”

Then, because he occasionally likes to remind everyone that he is as much of a menace as his brother is, Osamu grins one of his rare shit-eating grin and says the most outrageous thing he could possibly think of:

“Well, don’t ya love me?”

That damned sentence follows him to the batter box and Akaashi had to slap his own cheeks to refocus himself. It garners him some strange looks, but he elects to ignore Atsumu’s snickers and Bokuto’s worried cooing in favor of reviewing their current predicament and his at-bats history.

The count is one out, runner on first.

If he gets struck out or retired on a pop fly, they will still have one chance to turn the tide around this inning, more if they can hold Black Jackals scoreless in top of the tenth. Despite there being a wiggle room for him to make mistake, he walks up to bat without an ounce of intention to fail.

The pitching sequence they’ve thrown towards him so far has been: inside-high fastball (strike), inside-low fastball (strike), outside-high curveball (strike), outside-high curveball (foul), inside-low screwball (strike), outer slider (foul), inside screwball (foul), outside curveball (strike). So far, he deliberately avoids pulling out balls that leave the strike zone from the middle. Chances are Atsumu would assume they can handle him during at-bat if they switch inside and outside breaking balls.

It’s hard to meet the center of balls pitched all over the strike zone like that, especially at Bokuto’s speed. However, if Akaashi knows where it comes in, he can still hit.

Then again, he is facing his former partner—the eccentric sidewinder who lives and breathes to pitch, who pours everything he is into every ball he throws.

Even if Akaashi had been the one to help him work on quite a few of his signature pitches—a cutter-like fastball to the right-handed batter’s chest, a fastball he grips like an eagle that looks like it’s going to sink, and a pure high-quality fastball with a clean spin—Akaashi’s body still cannot react to the ball coming from the opposite side while still having the afterimage of the previous ball that came diagonally.

That, unfortunately, is the extent of his skill.

Still, he wants to hit; and because he is desperate to make contact, he has no problem whatsoever in resorting to a more unorthodox means. And so, he closes his eyes for the first pitch and swings as hard as he can. Then, look at where the mitt is before the call.

Outside.

Bokuto blinks at him owlishly, clearly taken aback by his atypical choice to close his eyes for the first pitch, but Akaashi gambles on the possibility that Bokuto is still the kind of pitcher who trusts his catcher’s lead unconditionally and throws exactly as he is asked to. With that assumption, it’s clear to him that:

An inside is coming, his brain supplies.

Other than the first two pitches his first time at bat, they’ve been all breaking balls.

It’s going to be another breaking ball.

Out of everything thrown at him, he has seen one particular pitch twice—

A splitter, to the inside.

Alright. Now that he knows exactly what’s coming and where, it’s only a matter of making contact.

He straightens his back, lightly taps his bat against the side of shoes before positioning it to hover over his left shoulder blade.

It’s true. Akaashi has a rough track record with breaking balls, especially in situations of high-stakes pinch. Even if he has clear sight of what’s coming, he is notorious for getting flustered at the last second and either swing way too late or way too early. He usually still makes contact out of sheer reflex, but it ends up being a pop-fly more times than not.

The kind of batter that he is right now, he cannot win against Bokuto.

In order to hit off of Bokuto, whether he likes it or not, Akaashi will have to give his 120% into his swing.

On the mound, Bokuto nods at the sign flashed to him, hunching over as he raises his left leg in that peculiar pitching form of his. Meanwhile, Akaashi braces himself, tightening his grip on the bat in anticipation of the incoming ball.

He barely caught a glimpse of the point of release before it flew straight at him. The familiar way it gains impelling force as it comes closer is almost nostalgic.

Ah.

He definitely knows this pitch.

With as much power as he could muster, Akaashi swings at it right before it changes course at the plate.

Clink;

the distinct sound of metal clangs.

White dot zips through cloudless blue, flying further, and further away—

Black Jackals’ outfielders scurries after it, toiling to catch it before it descends back to earth. Akaashi does not bother checking how far it takes to the air, he grounds his feet for momentum and sprints.

Around him, the world slows. The crowd’s loud hollering eggs him on to run faster before fading into an echo of the ringing of his bat. The only thing in his mind being to get as close to home as his legs could take him.

His eyes automatically snaps to the first base coach, wholly prepared to high-tail and turn at a moment’s notice. What greets him isn’t the usual hands out to the side with palms down to signal a slide or a stick to base, or the straightforward pointing to second or third plate—none of the many signs coach drilled into them in practice. It was a fluttering motion. A universal gesture to slow down.

—until it hits the back screen.

That is when it finally registers:

Akaashi Keiji has just hit a walk-off home run;

Off of Bokuto;

His once battery partner, Bokuto Koutarou.

The same Bokuto who is whooping and hollering rather rowdily from the mound.

“Bokkun, stop clapping!”

“But Tsum-tsum, it’s Agaashe!”

“Exactly because it’s him!”

Bokuto recourses to miming tiny claps, barely a little below his belt.

Atsumu fumes.

Akaashi is not entirely sure if he stepped foot on the home plate or not.

The team tackles him to the ground as soon as his shoe grazed something rubbery (oh, maybe he did, after all) and he gapes for oxygen in between the swarms of sweaty limbs reaching to put him in a headlock, mussing his hair, or slapping his back.

“Oi, don’t start gettin’ cocky on us, newbie!”

“Akaashi, you bastard, stop hogging all the spotlight!”

“Were ya waitin’ fer it?”

“That was a splitter, wasn’t it!? You’ve got to be insane to aim for that!”

“Alright, alright,” Osamu comes to his rescue before it gets too overwhelming, unafraid to peel layers and layers of animated seniors off him. “My partner’s awesome, I get it, but stop crowdin’ him. Let the guy breathe fer a sec, y’all’s gonna make him lightheaded.”

He reaches for the pitcher’s outstretched hand and uses it to pull his weight upward, then leans against his side for support, Osamu’s arm immediately encircling his waist. Akaashi lost his helmet somewhere along the way, hair sticking out into all points of the compass, and clay dirt clinging onto his forearm uncomfortably, but the dopey grin refuses to leave his lips. “It’s Bokuto-san’s favorite breaking ball. How could I not hit?”

“Spoken like a true clean-up,” their coach hoots in nonchalance, as if the air around their core batting crews didn’t just grow colder.

“Careful, Iizuna,” someone to his left whispers aloud, adding fuel to the fire. “New blood’s comin’ for yer spot.”

In truth, if Osamu wasn’t there to steady him, he might as well have fainted then and there.

He never considered striving to be a clean-up or a regular catcher, not even in high school. He was under the assumption that he’d quit after graduating, so he had played mostly for leisure than glory.

Then Bokuto was crowned ace and named him, a first year, as his main partner. And because Akaashi is the way he is, he started working harder so he could properly grow into the number 2 on his jersey; only that, never as a batter.

Until his third year, that is. On the precipice of his encroaching retirement, Akaashi lead a team consisting of some of high school league’s best players and return with a new kind of hunger. He picked up a wooden bat and started swinging until midway through his last tournament with Fukuroudani, he was promoted to second-hole.

It was never something he planned on becoming; but somewhere between Bokuto asking him to catch when everyone else refused to and Osamu stipulating he scores a run for him, everything sort of just falls into place.

A gentle squeeze on his bicep prompts him to look up, to the quiet lull at the tail-end of a storm.

“Ya really went and did it, huh?” Osamu croons at him, fondness masquerading as an unconvincing disguise of jibe.

Well, don’t ya love me?

Akaashi does not claim to understand why Osamu looks at him with such lovestruck eyes, but he knows his answer all the same. He has known for a quite some time now, but this is the part where he braves himself enough to actually say it.

“I do.”

Osamu’s usual half-lidded eyes come alive then, gleaming the way the sky does after lightning splits grey clouds in two, and hopes the vaguely bold flirt is a little better at reading in between the lines than he is. He watches roses blooming across his face in slow motion as he swallows thickly and parts his lips—

A flash of black and white barrels at them before Osamu could utter a word. Akaashi tries not to flip. Instead, he digs his shoes into the soil beneath to keep from toppling over.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Bokuto beams. “Myaa-sam, isn’t Agaashe the best!?”

“He is, Bokkun,” he mumbles in an soft voice that is so painfully Osamu, remains of roses blotching his cheeks. “I get why he’s yer favorite.”

“Oh? Is that so?” Miya Atsumu glowers from a few paces away, a ticked-off curl twisting his forehead and forced smile twitching in tandem with his every words. “You have no complaints if I stop catchin’ for ya when we visit home?”

“Absolutely none. I got Keiji-kun fer that.”

It shouldn’t surprise him. He had admitted to a realization about something along the same line just now, of course Osamu is going to take it as an opportunity, most especially because he knows that Akaashi is aware of the implication now. He knew this was coming, it shouldn’t surprise him.

But knowing is the worst part.

The knowledge that Osamu was so sure of whatever this is between them—they’re not even official yet, Akaashi had confessed not even five minutes ago—that he does not think twice of taking him to meet his family, had already thought that a year ago when they were barely an acquaintance.

Akaashi buries his burning face in his best friend’s sleeve. Chest rumbling in repressed chuckles, Bokuto offers generous comfort by patting his head.

The other pair continues to bicker incessantly.

“I regret sneakin’ ya into the all-star game.”

“Good. Don’t expect me ta thank ya or anythin’.”

“Fuck you,” Face red, Atsumu storms off, presumably to sulk in some secluded corner somewhere.

He knows it’s not serious. The twins flips each other off all the time. Does not make him feel any less guilty about it, though.

“Myaa-sam.” He peels his cheek off Bokuto’s jersey in time to witness Osamu lights up at the mention of his nickname. He feels the tip of his ears heats up, again. “Stop taunting Myaa-Tsum.”

Osamu shrugs, an easy smirk on his lips. “Just tellin’ ‘im as it is.” He turns to him then, fixing him with a look of pleading he knows he could never resist. “You’ll catch for me, yeah?”

“No fair!” Bokuto protests. Akaashi couldn’t agree more. “I want Agaashe to catch for me too! Can I borrow Agaashe, Myaa-sam?”

“Sure. Long as ya don’t interrupt his battin’ practice, come by anytime, Bokkun.”

“Roger!” He salutes, bounding away in direction of where Meian waves him over.

Akaashi resists the urge to groan, pouting instead. “It’s rude to discuss me as if I’m an inanimate object.”

Osamu gently places a hand on his lower back, he suspects, to placate him as he guides him to the dugout.

“Sorry.”

He does not sound sorry.

“And why is that your only concern? Am I just a scoring machine to you?”

“Well, partner,” Osamu hooks his arm around Akaashi’s shoulders, tugging him closer, then whispers a secret against the side of his forehead: “I still need ya to come home to me, after all.”